


A Map is Not the Territory | Inception | Arthur/Eames

by dremiel



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Blanket Permission, Developing Relationship, First Date, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Post-Canon, Post-Movie(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-06
Updated: 2011-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:36:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dremiel/pseuds/dremiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur didn’t know what was still on offer and what was just… habit for Eames. Suddenly, it seemed vitally important that he find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Map is Not the Territory | Inception | Arthur/Eames

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted, in a substantially less readable form, under the title "Satisfaction Guaranteed" in response to [this prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/18462.html?thread=42119966#t42119966) on the Inception Kink Meme. I titled the fill when I expected this to be perhaps 1000 words of complete crack. Please forgive any confusion caused by the re-titling. It may be useful to note that I did not intend to imply that the Sympathetic Nervous System be conflated with Neuro-Linguistic Programming. Inspiration for the spam was drawn from multiple online sources.
> 
> Heartfelt thanks to the_ragnarok_d and photoclerk for beta-reading and support. Remaining errors are entirely mine.

**A Map is Not the Territory**

 

“What the hell? Who the fuck has been downloading spam to our work server again?”

“Ah, that would be me. Have to stay on top of things, you know.”

“You ‘stay on top of things’ with _spam_?” Arthur had no idea why Eames had to grin at him like that. “It was imperative that you read ‘How to win the lover of your dreams: five proven seduction strategies’?” He suppressed a wince as he realized that he’d just handed Eames his next line. He was saved when Ariadne popped up from behind her model. Arthur wasn’t sure whether she looked more meerkat or prairie dog.

“Eames! You get your seduction strategies from the _Internet_?” It seemed like she was going for scandalized but got stuck nearer amused.

“Finger on the pulse, Ariadne dearest. Finger…on…the...pulse.”

“Is that one of the suggestions?” She waggled her eyebrows at him. Meerkat, Arthur decided.

Eames smirked. “Should’ve been, yeah. This one was surprisingly not terrible. Solid stuff.” He swiveled back to give Arthur a speculative look. “No one will think less of you if you put it aside for a little bed-time reading, Arthur.”

Ariadne wandered over to lean against Eames’ desk. “You’re endorsing spam as legitimate source of dating advice? Please tell me you don’t believe all that ‘power over the minds of women’ pseudo-science crap that gets flogged about?”

“Well, not _just_ women, no.” Eames wheeled his chair back and forth a little. “But seriously, between evolution and socialization we’ve got an enormous number of responses that are hard-wired, instanaeous. We’re designed and conditioned to act and react in very specific ways that make perfect sense within a survival context.”

He rose and grabbed a marker then began scribbling on the whiteboard. “Biochemically, arousal is not that difficult to trigger, it’s just next door to fear.” Eames gestured to his hastily scrawled list: **\+ heart rate, + respiration, +pupil dilation, + blood to muscles, + sweating, - analytical thinking.**

“Armed with a little knowledge, and the willingness to exploit it, you can evoke all kinds of reactions in another person.” He tapped the marker against the board in emphasis. “We do it all the time. We just don’t think of it as manipulation unless we have filthy motives.”

“So you could manipulate me into sleeping with you?” Ariadne leered.

“Don’t be obtuse,” Eames said, mildly, “it doesn’t suit you.” He perched on the edge of the desk and idly spun the marker between his fingers. “I’m not talking about overriding free will or personal responsibility. It’s not mind-control. But yeah.” Eames turned to look directly at Ariadne. “I could easily induce a physical response that you would probably interpret as attraction and arousal. What might or might not happen next is rather dependent on some slightly higher brain function.”

The physical responses that Eames provoked, now there was a topic, thought Arthur, that he did not care to examine in depth. “Alright. Enough. You two can debate Sympathetic Responses and Neuro-Linguistic Programming on your own damn time. Eames, keep your garbage off my server. And for god’s sake stop with the porn. We’re here to work.”

Affecting a wounded tone, Eames began, “I have _never_ -” only to be interrupted in what would have likely been a fairly substantial lie.

“Oh, the porn is mine,” Ariadne said, offhand, “sorry. Just let me save it before you dump it.” She jumped up and rooted through her messenger bag, producing an orange Lego-shaped flash drive with a triumphant sound.

Arthur was pretty sure that returning to his laptop was his only reasonable course of action. A few moments later he slipped in his earbuds and cranked the volume on his iPod. He had no desire to hear Ariadne and Eames discussing the gay porn she was busy moving onto her Lego drive.

And if he slid a copy of the Eames-endorsed spam to his own hard drive before he cleared its fingerprint, well, no one had to know.

~~~

It wasn’t until much later, as he picked up the novel he’d been falling asleep over for the past few nights, that Arthur gave any thought to Eames’ stupid download. He threw his head back onto his pillow and groaned in frustration. The man was driving him insane with his easy brilliance and his fucking shoulders and his goddamned competence and, Christ, those ridiculous _lips_.

Fuck. He’d been working too much. He had spent the first half of his twenties navigating the demeaning farce of DADT, which had reinforced his innate discretion and left him in a bit of a quandry. Anonymous one-night-stands blurred together unpleasantly but guys who would put up with a long-term lover who was essentially closeted in public made him inexplicably angry. In the years since he'd left the military behind he had developed an affection for the perfect three-week fling: screw each others brains out, have a little fun, and then exit gracefully before things got too personal. What he needed now was a good stretch of downtime and someone who hit that ideal balance: serious enough to want to wake up with but casual enough to walk away from when it was time for the next job.

Which ruled out anyone in Dreamshare. He knew better than anyone really, how many dreamers could no longer work with exes scattered through the community. Hell, there were times when pulling a team together seemed as fraught with complications as figuring out who to eat lunch with back in Middle School. He couldn’t put himself in that position. He had a pretty poor record at long-term relationships and short-term wasn’t that much better. There was no way he would ever put a casual fuck before his place in Dreamshare. He’d worked too hard, died too often for that.

He preferred his life in little boxes: separate and neatly contained. Except for Eames who, naturally, didn’t fit into any box at all.

He’d known, right from the beginning, that he could fall hard for Eames. Knew that the feeling, and the accompanying frisson of fear, was reciprocated, or rather, he knew that it _had_ been.

They’d even had a perfectly comprehensible non-conversation about it once, pissed on Sangria Blanca and trying to find their way through the pre-dawn hush of Barcelona. After a few scorching kisses Eames had pulled back to look at him, wary and searching. Arthur is sure he’s romanticized both the kisses and the electric rush of understanding that flashed between them but he knows, _he knows_ , that they agreed in that moment that they were an all or nothing proposition.

The past four years had been a whole lot of nothing.

And now. Now, Arthur didn’t know what was still on offer and what was just… habit for Eames. Suddenly, it seemed vitally important that he find out.

Sitting up, he reached for his laptop. He pass-keyed through the encryption, opened KingstonPayroll2003.doc, and settled in to be enlightened.

  
_  
**  
SMILE  
It may sound obvious but a smile sends a powerful message of approval and is a great way to signal your interest to your target. Don’t leer; just let a slow smile of acceptance appear as you listen. Your attention, coupled with a gentle expression of appreciation is a potent, and primal, non-verbal cue.   
**   
_   


 

Damn straight it “sounds obvious” thought Arthur. He _smiled_. He did. He had a goddamned great smile. He’d once had a lover write a fucking _song_ about his smile. Or maybe it was his dimples? Or was it the dimple just above his ass? His ass, which was also goddamned great. What was that guy’s name again? The point, though… the point was that he smiled at Eames. All the fucking time. Or not. Okay, maybe he didn’t break it out that often in the thick of a job but… Shit. After years of shutting Eames down he really was going to have to give the smile thing a shot. Damn it.

He opened the photo booth app and fiddled with the angle of his screen until his face was centered there, ghastly and green-tinged from some horrific interaction of bedside lamp and web cam. He casually “let a slow smile of acceptance appear” on his face. He looked constipated. Or like he was ordering a hit. While constipated.

He tried again and it somehow looked even worse. He glanced back at the instructions… ”gentle expression of appreciation”? Fucking hell, Eames would have him committed if he tried that.

Arthur considered bashing his face into his yellow-green image on screen but he merely sighed and shut everything down.

Then he took care of his goddamned fucking thoughts-of-Eames-induced hard-on, crawled under the covers, and resolutely willed himself to sleep.

He woke with a sense of purpose. He could do this. He could do, quite literally, almost anything and winning Eames was not going to be the exception. Stop. Back up: Winning? The hell? It was just the craptastic use of “prey” and “target” in the guide thing that put that in his head. Right? …Shit.

By the time Arthur got to the abandoned grocery store they were working out of it was late and he had barely ten minutes before the rest of the team would be in. He’d spent too long picking out his suit but only because he wasn’t sure if he should go with ego boosting “makes-my-ass-look-amazing” or “always-gets-a-mention-from-Eames”. In the end he chose his dark grey Dunhill, which generally did _both_ and made him feel invincible. Invincible until he was at the coffee shop, dithering between coffee and tea. Eames drank both but fuck if Arthur knew what kind of arcane system he had for deciding which beverage to have when. He bought lattes for everyone, he was not so far gone as to bring just Eames a drink, thank you very much. Plus he was going to need every drop of his triple shot the way this was going.

~~~

For the third time in as many hours Arthur turned away from his work to direct a smile at Eames, only to find that it was Trevor, their second extractor, rather than their forger-extractor, looking back at him. Eames was in New Orleans proper tailing one of the marks and was unlikely to make it back to their outlying base until late in the day.

At least the latte had been the right choice, Arthur reflected. Eames had thanked him with a quiet smile, one that Arthur might have called shy if he hadn’t known better, before heading into the city to pick up his mark’s trail.

“Arthur,” Trev sounded tentative, “do you have a mo’?”

“Of course, what’s up?” he swiveled his chair the rest of the way around and looked up at the young Australian who was building a solid reputation that belied his stoned-surfer looks.

“So, um, …it’s cool, really… but, see, I’m not really, umm… interested, yeah?” Trevor shifted his weight awkwardly and rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. “I’m flattered, of course, but… I’m just into birds, mate.”

Arthur’s mind went utterly fucking blank. “Right. Of course. Okay.” He couldn’t think of a single additional thing to say, and he was damned sure _not_ going to smile, so he turned back to a spreadsheet and hit a few random keys without having a clue what he was typing. He heard Trevor’s relieved sigh, his footsteps as he crossed back over to his own desk. Across the room Ariadne was holding a model of an offshore drilling rig and looking at him in confused concern but he ignored her and focused on trying to make sense of the numbers on his screens.

The job is the closest thing to legal that Arthur’s worked in years. They’re looking for the details of cozy deals, kickbacks, and outright bribes from several “retired” inspectors of the Mineral Management Service. They’d been hired to help focus the researchers in the right direction. Nothing they turned up was admissible, of course, but they could shave years off of a complex and far-reaching investigation. Anything they found would be valuable intel, even if all they discovered was that there was nothing to find. With six marks it was going to be a bitch of a job and a hell of a long slog. Having an additional extractor on board was absolutely crucial so it was imperative that Arthur stop freaking the fuck out of theirs.

When evening rolled around Arthur was stiff from sitting and damned near cross-eyed from triple-checking the financials. Ariadne had allowed herself to be talked into hitting the dive down the road for oyster Po Boys with Trev. Arthur had made sure he was deep in a tangle of expenditure reports and could decline with conviction. Lord only knew what Trev was confiding to Ari, or what she would make of his tale.

Rubbing his hands over his face Arthur huffed a laugh at his own expense. Had he honestly thought that he just needed to get his own head clear and everything would fall into place? When had his life ever been that simple? It was, he reflected, difficult to express appreciation for someone who wasn’t actually around. Rolling his neck a little he pulled out his phone and texted Eames.

`   
**Closing up shop; anything you need?**   
`

  


Almost immediately his phone buzzed in response.

  


`   
****`
    
    
    **im good but thx**

` **  
**   
`

  


He hesitated a moment and then replied.

  


`   
**Drink later?**   
`

  


`   
****`
    
    
    **ill be late - seems this jerk is cheating on mistress with her 20smthng  
     daughter**

` **  
**   
`

  


`   
**What an all around charming individual. Hard to believe he may have been taking bribes from the oil and gas industry**   
`

  


`   
****`
    
    
    **indeed - strains credibility - ill let you know when im headed back**

` **  
**   
`

  


`   
**Good. Thanks**   
`

  
`   
**
    
    
    you sound tense - all ok

  
**   
`

`   
**I sound tense? In a text? How is that even possible? Everything’s fine**   
`

  


`   
****`
    
    
    **dunno but you do  - hit the treadmill or something**

` **  
**   
`

  


`   
**Planning to, but I’m not tense.**   
`

  


`   
****`
    
    
    **ok ok - btw why is ari asking me about you and trev**

` **  
**   
`

  


`   
**GDI! It was just a misunderstanding. He thinks. Thought. Never mind.**   
`

  
`   
**
    
    
    v sorry to have missed that lol

  
**   
`   


`   
**I’m going now. Non-tensely.**   
`

  


`   
****`
    
    
    **righto l8r**

` **  
**   
`

  


Arthur tucked his phone away, aware that he was grinning like an idiot, and stepped out into the mild November night.

~~~

It was past 3:00am, when his phone buzzed again. Fumbling a little to find where it had slipped under his pillow, Arthur squinted at the bright screen.

`   
****`
    
    
    **slimebag tucked up at home with wife kids - headed back to metairie  
     anything you need**

` **  
**   
`

  


`   
****`
    
    
    **though i do hope you arent awake rn to read this**

` **  
**   
`

  


Without giving himself time to over think, Arthur thumbed the few buttons needed to put the call through.

“Arthur! You’re supposed to be sleeping. D’you need something?” Eames sounded completely wiped out, his accent deepened with fatigue.

Arthur closed his eyes against the whisky-rough drawl that seemed to sink into his bones. “No, I’m fine.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Don’t worry about getting in this morning; we’ll do a round up at one over lunch.”

“Ta, I won’t say no to a lie in,” Eames said around a yawn. “What did Trev turn up on number 5?”

“Tomorrow, Eames.”

“Right, right. Did he _truly_ think you were coming on to him?”

“He…” Arthur paused. “He sounds like you,” He offered, aware that he should leave this alone but disarmed by the intimacy of Eames voice, soft and close in the darkness.

“He does not. Wait. What?”

“Not his voice, you asshole. His footsteps. He sounds like you… I kept thinking it was you coming in... but it was him.”

“Arthur,” Eames breathed.

“Good night, Eames.”

“Arthur?” There was a long pause and Arthur forgot to breathe. Then Eames whispered, “go back to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

~~~

Arthur was aware that he had something of a reputation for being rigid and inflexible but he honestly thought that was just sloppy thinking. He liked working from a plan, it was true, but what most people failed to see was that he often had _several_ plans in play. His ability to adapt to real world circumstances was arguably one of his most valuable skills and was directly responsible for many of his more impressive successes. The rest was mostly what he thought of as “manufactured luck”: knowing as much as he possibly could about what he was walking into. In general that worked better on the job than it did with his social life.

Still, he thought, if his goal had been to signal his interest to Eames he certainly had to count yesterday as a win. It was a shame that he had no fucking idea what Eames was planning to do with the information. Arthur would just stick with his original plan until he needed to adjust it; until he knew how the hell he needed to adjust it.

There was one problem with this whacked-out scheme, Arthur mused as he leaned against the wall of his shower, tiles cool despite the steamy spray, accepting that he desperately wanted his hands all over Eames had him constantly _thinking_ about getting his hands all over Eames. And imagining Eames’ big, sure hands all over him. It was more than a bit distracting and somewhat hard on the line of his trousers. He finished up on a long moan; damn, he hadn’t jerked off this much since Basic.

  
_  
**  
GAZE   
**   
_

_  
  
**Let your gaze stay on your quarry’s eyes and face a little longer than is natural. Don’t look away during silences. A look that lingers is a trifle disturbing and subtly triggers the fight or flight reflex that will result in sharpened senses, increased blood flow, and rapid breathing. Common signs of arousal that your intended will now associate with you.**   
  
_

 

Just thinking about the next “strategy” made him crack up. It was _so damned Eames_. He’d watched the forger ply that exact trick from any number of bodies, on countless marks. About time, he thought, to turn the tables.

~~~

Although he could see Trevor working with Ari on one of the mazes, Arthur didn’t turn from the whiteboard when he heard Eames slide the back door closed. His pulse may have leapt a little but he kept his attention on the notes he was adding to their timeline.

“Good afternoon,” called Eames. “How fare my favorite criminals this fine day?”

“Favorite? Awesome.” Trevor pumped his fist in victory.

“Well, certainly among the top twenty,” Eames back-pedaled, “I have a rather large acquaintance of iniquitous felons but you lot shine so brightly.”

Arthur turned around to bestow an expertly arched brow of “what the fuck” on Eames, who simply grinned at him.

In the background he heard Ariadne grumble, “last week I was his _only_ favorite.”

“Arthur.” Eames was standing five feet away, still grinning.

“Eames.”

It was no hardship at all to let his gaze linger on Eames’ face.

Eames lifted the large paper sack he was carrying, “Lunch?”

“Thank god,” whooped Ariadne. "I’m starving! What did you bring me?”

“Not a pony,” laughed Eames as he set the bag on the work table. “Muffalettas and Turbodog.” He unpacked the huge round sandwiches and local beer. Arthur eyed the distinctively patterned butcher paper.

“Oh, I _love_ you!” Ariadne descended on a wrapped sandwich and then turned to Arthur. “Food first, talk second?”

“Fine,” he agreed, eyes still on Eames. “You drove all the way in to the French Quarter to get lunch from Central Grocery?”

“You said they were the best.”

Arthur didn’t give a damn that they were practically whispering or that his own smile was doubtless as irredeemably sappy as Eames’. Adapt. Adapt and adjust.

“Absolutely. The very best.”

~~~

Arthur leaned back in his chair as Ariadne walked them through the latest design. She really had taken to dreamsharing exceptionally quickly and her willingness to question pretty much everything was as valuable as it was occasionally annoying. He looked around the table with a little surge of pride. Ari and Trevor were among the most talented of the new generation in shared dreaming, just as he and Eames had been stars of the original military programs. He would put this team - _his team_ \- up against any in the business. Although, swear to god, if Eames didn’t stop fellating the hell out of his beer bottle they were going to be down a fucking forger.

“Great job, Ariadne.” Arthur smiled warmly, “All of you. We have a solid plan in place at least a week ahead of schedule. We’ve got this.

“I gotta say it is _sick_ working with folks with skills.” Trev smiled and rose, loose-limbed, from his chair.

“Hold up a minute,” Arthur called. He made one final notation in his moleskine and then looked up. “I need to speak with our clients, but you should take the afternoon, relax. This is going to be a long haul and we can’t afford to get burned-out.”

Three faces looked back at him in varying degrees of disbelief. Arthur smirked a little as he stood. “Plus, it’s too nice a day for us to be stuck in here.”

“Eames, I’m sorry to ask, but I’d actually like you there for the meet. They’re back on the forgery/entrapment thing again.”

“No problem.” Eames looked thoughtful then asked, “do I need a wardrobe change?”

Arthur took in his pressed olive chinos, lightweight cream collared shirt, and leather loafers; his eyes climbed slowly back to Eames’ face. “You look good.”

Eames returned his gaze steadily and heat pooled in Arthur’s gut.

They both started as Ariadne threw an arm around Eames. “Thanks for lunch,” she told him and then turned to address Arthur, “and for the afternoon off!” Arthur nodded and watched her go, a little surprised that she hadn’t been scorched when she stepped between them.

“Give me...” Arthur glanced at his watch, “thirty minutes?”

Eames nodded agreeably.“Sounds good.”

Arthur took a quick look at the strategy spam, made a brief phone call, and spent a few moments verifying a memory from a long-ago visit to the area.

  
_  
**  
GET CAUGHT LOOKING   
**   
_

_  
  
**Now is a great time to let your eyes wander over your target’s body. There is no need to be lewd, just let yourself get caught appreciating a hand, neck, ankle, the curve of a shoulder. When you must look away do so reluctantly, drag your eyes away and let your attention float back as if you cannot help yourself. Everyone wants to feel irresistibly alluring.**   
  
_

 

Yeah, he thought, they were a bit past that. Not to mention Arthur was more than ready to be less fucking passive. Next…

  
_  
**  
SHAKE THINGS UP   
**   
_

_  
  
**Your quarry is all warmed up now and feeling special. Time to prove there is always more to discover about you. Do something a little out of character to signal that you still have some surprises. A bit of mystery gets the blood pumping every time, leaving your target aroused, intrigued, and wanting to get closer.**   
  
_

 

Arthur smiled; he was actually pretty damned good at shaking things up.

~~~

Eames did not seem particularly surprised when Arthur turned the car north onto the causeway over Lake Pontchartrain.

“I take it we’re _not_ meeting with the clients, then?”

“Are you kidding? They’re scared shitless of being photographed with one of us and having the whole thing go loud.”

“Hmmm. I did think it odd that you would head out to see clients in your shirtsleeves,” He rumbled. “Am I being kidnapped?”

“I suppose that might be one way to look at it, yes.”

“Arthur, are you being spontaneous? Without a job going sideways or anything?” Eames sounded delighted.

“I’m supposed to surprise you, right?”

“You’re skipping bits.”

“I prefer to think of it as accelerating the timeline.”

Eames laughed, warm and genuine, and it sent heat racing through Arthur again. “And I was so looking forward to you ogling me.”

“You get ‘ogled’ all the damned time, Eames.”

“But I rarely get to _catch_ you at it, pet.” He fiddled with the radio a little until smoky blues filled the car.

For several minutes there was just the plaintive music, the brilliant blue sky, the water surrounding them. Eames looked entirely relaxed but Arthur knew better, could almost feel the turmoil beneath his stillness.

Finally, Eames turned to him, all traces of playfulness gone, and asked, “Why now?”

“You really want to do this now? In the middle of a twenty-three mile bridge?”

“Well, nowhere to run.”

“I never ran.” Arthur worked to keep his tone even.

“And if I were referring to myself?” He sounded sincere.

Arthur glanced at Eames and then back to road, drove another half-mile before he spoke, “Because contrary to your little spam treatise there are no guarantees. Because life is really fucking short. Because I’m finally ready to accept that I’d rather be a fool than a coward.”

“Christ. Arthur,” Eames choked out hoarsely. He looked about a little wildly. “How much further before we get off this buggering bridge and can pull over?”

This time it was Arthur who laughed. “Fourteen miles, Mr. Eames. Fourteen damned miles.”

Eames turned back to him and, well, there was really no other word for it, _giggled_.

“I know our timing’s always been a little rough but -” Eames broke off, giving himself over to his laughter.

“Hey, you _asked_.” Arthur felt something within him unclench at the joyful sound. There was no way the term “adorable” should ever apply to a hardened criminal with a razor-sharp mind and thighs like fucking trees, and yet.

“I know I know. I’m just... ahh… not accustomed to you being quite so forthcoming with your answers.” Eames turned in his seat to face Arthur fully. He released a deep breath and seemed to regain a little control. “You are utterly marvelous, darling. You do know that, right?” Eames took another shaky breath and wiped at his eyes. “And for the record you are hands down the most courageous man I know.”

“I don’t know about that.” Arthur shook his head. “You terrify me. _This_ terrifies me.”

“Hey.” Eames reached to lift Arthur’s right hand from the steering wheel. “C’mon, I promise I won’t make you drive us into the lake, just let me…” He entwined their hands, palm-to-palm and squeezed gently.

Arthur glanced down at their joined hands, his chest tightening, then looked up to see Eames watching him with a crooked smile, hair disheveled from his fit of giggles, and just a tease of ink showing at his open collar. Fuck. He was a wet dream come to life, although Arthur had never even _fantasized_ about Eames looking at him with such open desire.

He returned his attention to the road but had to clear his throat before he could speak, “You’re going to have to stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m pretty sure that I don’t, actually.”

“You’re going to have to stop looking at me like that until we’re off this fucking causeway, and not in public, and possibly until we’re out of rural Louisiana altogether,” Arthur clarified as evenly as he could.

“Mmmm, specificity,” Eames murmured, stroking his thumb gently over the side of Arthur’s hand.

Arthur was beyond wondering how the hell a simple touch to his hand was causing sparks to shoot down his spine. Yeah, he thought somewhat helplessly, the timeline was pretty well fucked.

~~~

Arthur drove straight through downtown Mandeville, relying on well-honed instincts to help him find what he needed as quickly as possible. Yes, there. He cut the engine and leaned back with a small sigh as he turned to face Eames, who was looking at the seemingly abandoned industrial storage facility before them as if it was a puzzle.

“Not that I would ever doubt you-” Eames’ voice cut off abruptly as Arthur leaned in to kiss him. There was a console between them and the angle was awkward but as Arthur felt the plush lips beneath his part everything else fell away. He licked into Eames’ mouth: hot and wet and glorious. Eames’ tongue swept against his own. Teeth and tongues and pressure and heat. One of them moaned- it may well have been him. His brain was toggling between _Fuck, yes! At last!_ and _Closer, damnit._

 _God_ Eames felt amazing under his hands. Fuck. Arthur trailed one hand up Eames’ shoulder to wind around his neck, the other pushing aside that damned collar so he could _finally_ get his mouth on that fucking tattoo. He sucked up a little bruise there in some primal need to mark his claim.

Eames expelled a breathy, “Holy fuck...” as he wound a hand in Arthur’s hair, the other slipping down to cup Arthur’s ass. It was only when Arthur realized he was about to climb over the console and straddle Eames that he remembered where they were; secluded perhaps, but still entirely public and, shit, the middle of the afternoon. Arthur forced himself to pull back, hands shaking and body protesting. Eames let out an honest to god _whimper_ and moved to follow him.

“Fuck. _Public,_ Eames.” Arthur didn’t even care how wrecked he sounded.

Eames ran his thumb along Arthur’s lower lip. “Christ, Arthur…” Without any conscious intent Arthur touched his tongue to Eames’ thumb, lapping, and then sucked it into his mouth.

“Buggering hell!” Eames groaned, “mixed messages, darling.”

Arthur raised his hands in what could have been surrender or agreement and sat back, breathing hard. Eames looked so fantastically debauched it was hard to remember why it would be careless to climb on over.

“I, umm, I need a second,” Arthur choked out and climbed from the car. He folded his arms on the hood above the open car door and rested his head on them, sucking air. An insistent ding ding ding signaled that the keys were still in the ignition. Which was a hell of a metaphor, he thought - damned straight the keys were still in the ignition. The bad humor helped steady him and he took a few more breaths as he combed his fingers through his hair then leaned down to address Eames.

“Sorry. You okay?”

Eames nodded without looking up. “Christ. You do pack a punch, don’t you?”

Arthur grinned a little sheepishly. “I don’t think it was all me, Eames.” He returned to the driver’s seat and closed the door.

“So this isn’t our ultimate destination?”

“ _This_ was off the bridge and the best I could do without any blood supply to my brain,” Arthur admitted. He restarted the car and turned them back toward old town Mandeville as Eames let out a quiet giggle. Arthur decided that he could become accustomed to causing that infectious little giggle.

Stopping in the town square, Arthur parked in front of a whitewashed restaurant that had a small garage attached.

“I’ll just be a minute.” Pleased that Eames was still game to follow his lead, Arthur headed into the Kickstand Café and Bike Rentals.

He returned a few minutes later with two plastic water bottles to find Eames standing before a large sign that detailed the history of the Tammany Trace Rail Trail. A map showed the thirty-odd miles of reclaimed railroad right-of-way that had been turned into a bike path linking five historic North shore towns.

“You have a choice of blue or blue.” Arthur indicated the two old-fashioned cruiser bikes that the attendant had wheeled out.

“Blue, I think.” Eames chose the brighter bike, leaving the more dignified navy one for Arthur.

They followed the signs to the nearby trailhead and were quickly enveloped by stands of hardwoods, town noises falling away.

Mid-week there were few people on the rail trail with them but they did pass a couple of joggers and a gaggle of mothers with strollers, and were passed by a serious cyclist or two. Just normal people going about their day, unaware that Arthur’s emotional ballast was seriously fucked up. Working in dreams he had become inured to lightening-quick shifts in perception but he was pretty damned sure he’d never had a single waking hour that had altered everything as radically as this last one; at least not one that didn’t feature gunfire and arterial blood.

The lush green quiet, the oaks reaching overhead to tunnel them, the scents of pine and bayou and _life_ were both otherworldly and deeply comforting. He felt his tension drain away and could see that Eames was relaxing as well. For long minutes they just rode, their pace leisurely, the rhythm soothing.

Eames stopped on a trestle bridge to watch a heron wing it’s way up from the water. Arthur stopped to watch Eames. After years of being circumspect it was intoxicating to look his fill.

“Arthur,” Eames said simply, “thank you.”

Arthur leaned across to press a chaste kiss to Eames’ smile and murmur a quiet, “you’re welcome.”

Riding on Arthur marveled at just how easy, how _natural_ , the affectionate touches and casual intimacy already felt, as if the long understanding between them had allowed this deeper need to slip quietly into place.

 

Several miles later they rolled into the little town of Abita Springs and Arthur chuckled as he saw Eames eyeing the brewpub with its tidy beer garden.

“Later,” he promised, before Eames had a chance to suggest a stop.

“You’re making all sorts of promises for later, darling,” Eames noted, “don’t think I won’t hold you to every one of them.”

“Oh, I think you’ll be satisfied, Mr. Eames.” Arthur breezed past him to lead the way down a side street.

Pulling up before a riot of color and pattern and shiny metal spinning in the sun, he watched Eames take in the building that had started life as a gas station but now more closely resembled a fun house. Mismatched signs announced that they had arrived at the ‘Abita Springs Mystery House’ and ‘U-See-Um Museum’ of ‘Unusual Collections’.

By the time they had made their way inside, where every vertical surface was covered with bottle caps and the ceiling tiled in obsolete motherboards, Eames had gone from slightly bewildered to absolutely enchanted. After buying their tickets Arthur dragged him out the back door to ‘grounds’ of the museum.

For the next hour or so they explored tiny dioramas of 1950s America that sprung into motion with the touch of a button, a house bricked with empty hot sauce bottles, the world’s second-largest collection of combs, and a paint-by-numbers art gallery. Then they found the vintage pinball machines, all in working order. Again and again Eames looked to Arthur in wonder.

“How are you so perfect?” Eames asked, finally, awe-struck, or love-struck, or both.

“What? No one’s ever abducted you to a junk museum on a first date?” Arthur chuckled then stilled as Eames gently cupped his face.

“Arthur, no one else has ever even come close,” Eames whispered, ghosting his thumb over Arthur’s cheekbone.

“Yes. Well,” said Arthur, soft and a bit shaky. He pressed a kiss into Eames palm then tangled their fingers together. “Too late for them now.”

Eames’ smile could have lit the night sky. “Yeah, it is.”

Hands firmly linked, Arthur led the way to the forty-foot Bass-i-gator.

By the time Eames had met and charmed the museum founder, Arthur was ready to collapse on the deck of the brewpub a few blocks away. The proverbial kid in a candy store had nothing on Eames in the Mystery House gift shop and Arthur had been forced to resort to whispered promises of ale, and intimations of more, to lure him out.

They sat in comfortable silence, lingering over their pints and a basket of fried pickles. Eames admired his souvenir key-chain featuring Buford the half-bass/half-gator as he slowly ran a socked foot up Arthur’s calf. Arthur was too pleased with the success of their impromptu outing to care much about the small public display. Given that he was restraining himself from throwing Eames down and fucking him through the teak deck, he figured anyone objecting to a little footsie between two men could just fuck off.

“You look unbearably smug, you know.”

Arthur looked up at Eames. “Well, I’ve had a pretty good day.” What the hell, he thought and reached for Eames’ hand. “Actually,” he corrected, “I’ve had an _exceptionally_ good day.”

“And now?” Eames asked quietly.

“Now we have a date with a sunset back at the lake.”

“And then?” Eames cocked his head as if Arthur might look different from a slightly different angle.

“Does there have to be a plan, Eames?”

“Of course not, but I thought you might want one.”

Arthur shook his head slowly. “I don’t have fucking clue where we’re going, Eames. It’s Terra Nova. Can’t we just figure it out together?”

“That sounds lovely. Aside from the part where I’m scared to death of cocking this up.”

“Jesus. You think I’m not?”

Eames held his gaze, longing and hope and fear swirling between them. “Right.” Eames rose and tucked Buford away. “Where’s this sunset of yours, then?”

“Ours.”

Eames paused then tried again, a bit huskily, “let’s find this sunset of ours. West, d’you think?”

“That sounds about right, yeah.”

~~~

They returned their bikes to The Kickstand in Mandeville, where Eames was delighted to learn that a free T-shirt came with every half-day rental.

“Jesus, Eames,” Arthur groaned, “at least take the green one instead of that orange.”

“Trying to change me already,” Eames sighed dramatically, but he chose the heathered green with a smile.

A few minutes drive along the lake they found the state park. The office was already dark, instructions for late-arriving campers posted on the door. Arthur followed the rustic road signs pointing toward the lake and parked beside an old sedan and a huge pickup in a small gravel lot at a trailhead. There were no other signs of people. Several yards away, above the narrow beach, there was a stone picnic table tucked in among scraggly pines. Eames spread his T-shirt out before sitting down on the table-top, perching his feet on the stone bench below.

Eames patted the jersey-topped stone. “I’ll share, you don’t want to ruin those impeccably tailored trousers.”

Arthur stood before him and surprised himself by saying,“I don’t actually give a fuck about the sunset, Eames.”

“Mmmm,” Eames murmured. He settled his hands on Arthur’s hips and stroked gently up and down. “I suppose you’re going to try to distract me from watching it, too?”

“I might put a little effort into that, yeah,” Arthur agreed. Stepping between Eames' spread knees he ran his hands up Eames’ chest and curled them around those ripped shoulders. He was a little drunk with the freedom to finally _touch_. “If I can think of anything that might distract you.”

Eames drew him closer and nosed at his open collar, lips trailing heat across Arthur’s skin. “I have complete faith in your research methods.”

Arthur hadn’t noticed Eames untucking his dress shirt but it was impossible to miss the shiver that ran down his spine at the touch of Eames warm hand skating over the bare skin of his back. He thought he should remind Eames that his research methods generally involved verifying data several times over but Eames had lifted his head and oh, yeah… that fucking mouth. They came together, less frantic than earlier but with no less intensity. He sucked at Eames lower lip, plunged into the slick heat of his gorgeous mouth, and lost himself in the rhythm of dominance and surrender.

Eames was making the most delicious moans of pleasure and approval; Arthur drank them down greedily, wanting more and more and more. He suckled under Eames’ jaw, nipped at his neck, and was rewarded with a throaty groan – jackpot. Eames shifted forward on the table just enough to bring their bodies into full contact and swept his hands down to slide beneath Arthur’s waistband, fingers teasing along the top of his ass. It was Arthur who moaned as Eames pulled him closer still, pressing their stiffening cocks together.

“Oh, fuck, Eames. You feel so goddamned good,” he gasped.

“Darling, the sun seems to have set without us,” Eames purred against Arthur’s throat, “and I feel, quite strongly, that we should be someplace private as soon as is humanly possible.”

The thought of letting go of Eames and strapping himself back in a car for the next thirty minutes was unappealing in the extreme. He had denied himself for years but now that the dam had broken his restraint was simply _gone_. There was no fucking way he was going to rein it in unless he absolutely must.

“Or,” he said, voice hoarse with arousal, “we could stay _right here_ ,” Arthur ground against Eames for emphasis, “and gamble that the park staff has better things to do than hand out citations for Public Indecency.”

“Arthur,” Eames groaned, “I appreciate your _beautifully_ filthy mind as much as I do your _beautifully_ filthy body but we have several lovely soft beds just across that lake and I was rather counting on you fucking me into one of them in the immediate future. The _very_ immediate future.”

Arthur leaned back slightly to look at Eames. Jesus, he was hot as fuck– all swollen lips and blown pupils, unbearably sexy in the fading light.

“Count on it,” Arthur growled, “but if you think I’m leaving this damned park without getting my hands on your cock you are not using that fine brain of yours.” Arthur reached a hand between them to cup Eames’ dick through his trousers.

“Christ, you’ll be the death of me, pet,” was all Eames said, but he reached to unzip Arthur’s fly. Busy with Eames zipper, Arthur felt an electric thrill when Eames big warm hand wrapped around his cock and drew it from his boxer briefs.

“Fuck, yes,” Arthur moaned. He freed Eames' cock and rubbed it against his own; watched as Eames smeared his palm over the pre-come leaking from them both then began slowly jacking them together.

Adding his own hand, Arthur simply let the pleasure wash through him. The slide of Eames hard cock against his own and the pressure of their joined hands were exquisite. Before long they were breathing harshly, trembling, both so damned close to coming. When Arthur looked up to meet Eames gaze it hit him: this was _Eames._ The fucking impossible, infuriating, brilliant man whom he had wanted _forever_ \- and whom he was about to bring off if the stunned bliss in Eames’ eyes was any indication. Something like peace welled up in Arthur and he brought their lips together tenderly.

Breathing Eames’ name against his mouth, Arthur let go and relaxed into his release. His come spilled, warm and slick, over their hands and cocks and a few strokes later Eames shuddered through this own orgasm, moaning, “Arthur” into the still gentle kiss.

They nuzzled each other languidly, breath slowly returning to normal. Several minutes passed before Arthur became aware that night had truly fallen and that the air was taking on a chill. He was leaning back to suggest... something, when he saw the glare of headlights flash on the main road above them.

“Shit!” He grabbed Eames’ rail trail T-shirt and gave him the most cursory wipe down imaginable, tucking his softened cock back in his pants. Eames, damn him, was _smirking_. Fuck!

By the time the pickup had pulled around to park next to their little Honda they were sitting on the table, side by side. Arthur couldn’t imagine that they looked anything but fucked-out and guilty as hell but Eames lazily raised a hand in greeting as a flashlight beam roved over them.

The Park Ranger had lowered his window but hadn’t cut his motor yet.

“You gentlemen doin’ okay here?” he called.

“Absolutely,” Eames answered, “lovely sunset tonight.” Shit. Was he playing up his accent?

The ranger watched them for a moment. “So it was. Park is closing unless you’re planning to rent a campsite overnight.”

Eames hopped down. “Ah, then we’ll be on our way. Thank you. I’m afraid we’re not equipped for camping tonight.”

Nodding at them the ranger rolled up his window and drove on. As soon as his truck was out of sight Eames leaned on the table whooping with laughter.

Arthur shook his head in disbelief. “Come on, let’s get out of here before he decides to double back.”

“Your _face_ , love!” Eames was still gasping for air. “My ever-composed bad-ass Arthur brought low by a Park Ranger!”

“Fuck you,” Arthur said without heat, dismissing his panicked reaction. “Autonomic Response to Post-Coital stress.”

“Ahh!” He wheezed, “Not helping, Arthur...” Eames shook out his limbs and seemed to reset his equilibrium. Arthur had seen him use the same trick in dreams but rarely in waking life.

Eames walked over and drew him in for a simple kiss then rested their foreheads together. “Thank you for kidnapping me today.”

Arthur closed his eyes and leaned into Eames. “Anytime.”

“Take me home?” Eames asked.

“I can do that,” he promised. “I can do that.”

~~~

TIMESTAMP: 35 Minutes Later

  
_  
**  
DON’T PLAY IT SAFE  
Plan an adrenaline rush. Shared danger is a time-tested aphrodisiac. The risk can be perceived rather than real, as your bodies will react with the same heightened awareness. Watching a scary movie, taking in the view from the top of a skyscraper, or even risking social taboos together will build a bond of common exhilaration.   
**   
_   


 

“Honestly, you can tell me, Arthur,” Eames implored as they exited the elevator. “How _did_ you get the ranger there at that exact moment?”

Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I told you, it was just a fluke.”

“Perhaps,” Eames said, “but you must have known they patrolled at dusk?”

He hadn’t, but fuck if he was going to admit that. He was always happy to accept credit for lucky breaks. As long as they were getting into this though…

“You know Eames, that spam of yours was actually uploaded through our server a couple of hours _before_ you downloaded it.”

“Hmmm. How terribly odd.”

“Mmmm. It also bears a striking resemblance to an article that appeared in The Sun, under one of your older pseudonyms, a few years back,” Arthur said as he pulled out a keycard.

“Well.” Eames fiddled with his cuff. “The article actually covered _ten_ tips, but..." he lowered his voice somewhat conspiratorially, "I wasn't sure I’d survive that long.”

Arthur smiled. “I have always appreciated your adaptability, Mr. Eames.” He unlocked the door to his hotel room and held it wide in invitation.


End file.
